by J. D. Robb
“But instead of pushing, you gave it to Peabody.”
“She needs the experience. A little more time won’t matter to Marsha Stibbs. If Peabody goes down the wrong channels, I’ll steer her back.”
“She must be thrilled.”
“Christ, she’s got stars in her eyes.”
It made him smile. “What was the first case Feeney handed you?”
“Thomas Carter. Got into his sedan one fine morning, coded in, and the sucker blew up, sending pieces of him flying all over the West Side. Married, two kids, sold insurance. No side pieces, no enemies, no dangerous vices. No motive. Case stalled, went cold. Feeney dug it out, told me to work it.”
“And?”
“Thomas Carter wasn’t the target. Thomas K. Carter, second-rate illegals dealer with a gambling addiction was. Asshole hired hitman tapped the wrong guy.” She glanced back to see Roarke still grinning at her. “And yeah, I remember how it felt to be handed the file and to close it.”
“You’re a good trainer, Eve, and a good friend.”
“Friendship has nothing to do with it. If I didn’t think she could handle working the case, I wouldn’t have given it to her.”
“That’s the trainer part. The friendship part should be here shortly.”
“Dinner. What the hell are we going to do with them when we’re not eating?”
“It’s called conversation. Socializing. Some people actually make a habit of doing both, on practically a daily basis.”
“Yeah, well some people are screwy. You’re probably going to like the Peabodys. Did I tell you that when I got back to Central, they were feeding the bull pen cupcakes and cookies? Pie.”
“Pie? What kind of pie?”
“I don’t know. By the time I got there all that was left of it was the dish—and I think somebody ate that. But the cupcakes were amazing. Anyway, Peabody came back in my office and said all this weird stuff about her mother.”
He toyed with the ends of Eve’s hair now, enjoying the streaky look of it. He’d have understood perfectly Boyd Stibbs’s claim of not being able to keep his hands off his wife. “I thought they got along very well.”
“Yeah, they seem to cruise. But she said how she needed to warn me that her mother had these powers.”
“Wiccan?”
“Uh-uh, and not the Free-Ager hoodoo stuff either, even though she says her father’s a sensitive. She said that her mother can make you do things you don’t necessarily want to do, or say things you’d as soon keep to yourself. According to Peabody, I only asked them to dinner tonight because I was trapped in The Look.”
Intrigued, Roarke cocked his head. “Mind control?”
“Beats me, but she said it was just a mother thing, and her mother was particularly good at it. Or something. Didn’t make any sense to me.”
“Well, neither of us know much about mother things, do we? And as she’s not our mother, I imagine we’re perfectly safe from her maternal powers, whatever they may be.”
“I’m not worried about it, just passing on the warning.”
Summerset, Roarke’s majordomo and the bane of Eve’s existence, came to the doorway. He sniffed once, his bony face set in disapproving lines. “That Chippendale is a coffee table, Lieutenant, not a footstool.”
“How do you walk with that stick up your ass?” She left her feet where they were, propped comfortably on the table. “Does it hurt, or does it give you a nice little rush?”
“Your dinner guests,” he said, curling his lip, “have arrived.”
“Thank you, Summerset.” Roarke got to his feet. “We’ll have the hors d’oeuvres in here.” He held out a hand to Eve.
She waited, deliberately, until Summerset had stepped out again before swinging her feet to the floor.
“In the interest of good fellowship,” Roarke began as they started toward the foyer, “could you not mention the stick in Summerset’s ass for the rest of the evening?”
“Okay. If he rags on me I’ll just pull it out and beat him over the head with it.”
“That should be entertaining.”
Summerset had already opened the door, and Sam Peabody had his hand clasped, pumping away in a friendly greeting. “Great to meet you. Thanks for having us. I’m Sam, and this is Phoebe. It’s Summerset, isn’t it? DeeDee’s told us you take care of the house, and everything in it.”
“That’s correct. Mrs. Peabody,” he said, nodding at Phoebe. Officer, Detective. Shall I take your things?”
“No, thank you.” Phoebe held on to the box she carried. “The front gardens and landscaping are beautiful. And so unexpected in the middle of such an urban world.”
“Yes, we’re quite pleased with it.”
“Hello again.” Phoebe smiled at Eve as Summerset shut the front door. “And Roarke. You were right, Delia, he is quite spectacular.”
“Mom.” Peabody choked out the word as the flush flooded her face.
“Thank you.” Roarke took Phoebe’s hand, lifted it to his lips. “That’s a compliment I can return. It’s wonderful to meet you, Phoebe. Sam.” He shifted, shook Sam’s offered hand. “You created a delightful and charming daughter.”
“We like her.” Sam squeezed Peabody’s shoulders.
“So do we. Please, come in. Be comfortable.”
He’s so good at it, Eve thought as Roarke settled everyone in the main parlor. Smooth as satin, polished as glass. Within moments, everyone had a drink in their hands and he was answering questions about various antiques and art pieces in the room.
Since he was dealing with the Peabodys, Eve turned her attention to McNab. The EDD whiz was decked out in what Eve imagined he considered his more conservative attire. His periwinkle shirt was tucked into a pair of loose, silky trousers of the same tone. His ankle boots were also periwinkle. A half-dozen tiny gold hoops paraded up his left earlobe.
He wore his long blond hair in a ponytail that was slicked back from his face. And his pretty face, Eve noted, was approximately the color of a boiled lobster.
“You forget the sunblock, McNab?”
“Just once.” He rolled his green eyes. “You should see my ass.”
“No.” She took a deep gulp of wine. “I shouldn’t.”
“Just making conversation. I’m a little nervous. You know.” He nodded toward Peabody’s father. “It’s really weird making small talk with him when we both know I’m the one banging his daughter. Plus, he’s psychic, so I keep worrying if I think about banging her, he’ll know I’m thinking about banging her. And that’s way too weird.”
“Don’t think about it.”
“Can’t help it.” McNab chuckled. “I’m a guy.”
She scanned his outfit. “That’s the rumor anyway.”
“Excuse me.” Phoebe touched Eve’s arm. “Sam and I would like to give you and Roarke this gift.” She offered Eve the box. “For your generosity and friendship to two of our children.”
“Thanks.” Gifts always made her feel awkward. Even after more than a year with Roarke and his habit of giving, she never knew quite how to handle it.
Perhaps it was because she’d gone most of her life without anyone caring enough to give.
She set the box down, tugged on the simple twine bow. She opened the lid, pushed through the wrapping. Nestled inside were two slender candlesticks fashioned from glossy stone in greens and purples that melted together.
“They’re beautiful. Really.”
“The stone’s fluorite,” Sam told her. “For cleansing the aura, peacefulness of mind, clarity of thought. We thought, as you both have demanding and difficult occupations, this stone would be most beneficial.”
“They’re lovely.” Roarke lifted one. “Exquisite workmanship. Yours?”
Phoebe sent him a brilliant smile. “We made them together.”
“Then they’re doubly precious. Thank you. Do you sell your work?”
“Now and again,” Sam said. “We prefer making them for gifts.”
“I sell w
hen selling’s needed,” Phoebe put in. “Sam’s too soft-hearted. I’m more practical.”
“I beg your pardon.” Once again, Summerset stood in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”
It was easier than Eve thought. They were nice people, interesting and entertaining. And their pride in Peabody was so obvious it was impossible not to warm up to them.
“We worried, of course,” Phoebe said as they began with lobster bisque, “when Dee told us what she wanted to do with her life, and where. A dangerous occupation in a dangerous city.” She smiled across the table at her daughter. “But we understood that this was her calling, and trusted she would do good work.”
“She’s a good cop,” Eve said.
“What’s a good cop?” At Eve’s frown, Phoebe gestured. “I mean, what would be your particular definition of a good cop?”
“Someone who respects the badge and what it stands for, and doesn’t stop until they make a difference.”
“Yes.” Phoebe nodded in approval. Her eyes, dark and direct, stayed on Eve’s.
And as something in that quiet, knowing stare made Eve want to shift in her seat, she decided Phoebe would be an ace in Interview.
“Making a difference is why we’re all here.” Phoebe lifted her glass, gesturing with it before she sipped. “Some do it with prayer, others with art, with commerce. And some with the law. People often think Free-Agers don’t believe in the law, the law of the land, so to speak. But we do. We believe in order and balance, and in the right of the individual to pursue life and happiness without harm from others. When you stand for the law, you stand for balance, and for those individuals who have been harmed.”
“The taking of a life, something I’ll never understand, makes a hole in the world.” Sam laid a hand over his wife’s. “Dee doesn’t tell us much about her work, the details of it. But she’s told us that you make a difference.”
“It’s my job.”
“And we’re embarrassing you,” Phoebe said as she lifted her wineglass. “Why don’t I change the subject and tell you what a beautiful home you have.” She turned to Roarke. “I hope after dinner we can have a tour of it.”
“Got six or eight months?” Eve muttered.
“Eve claims there are rooms we don’t even know about,” Roarke commented.
“But you do.” Phoebe lifted her brows. “You’d know all of them.”
“Excuse me.” Summerset stepped in. “You have a call, Lieutenant, from Dispatch.”
“Sorry.” She pushed away from the table, strode out quickly.
She was back within minutes. One look at her face told Roarke he’d finish the evening’s entertaining on his own.
“Peabody, with me. I’m sorry.” She scanned faces, lingered on Roarke’s. “We have to go.”
“Lieutenant? You want me to tag along?”
She glanced back at McNab. “I could use you. Let’s move. I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Don’t worry about it.” Roarke got to his feet, skimmed his fingertips down her cheek. “Take care, Lieutenant.”
“Right.”
“Occupational hazard.” Roarke sat again when he was alone with Phoebe and Sam.
“Someone’s died,” Sam said aloud.
“Yes, someone’s died. And now,” Roarke said, “they’ll work to find the balance.”
Chapter 3
Walter C. Pettibone, the birthday boy, had arrived home at precisely seven-thirty. One hundred and seventy-three friends and associates had shouted “Surprise!” in unison the minute he’d walked in the door.
But that hadn’t killed him.
He’d beamed like a boy, playfully scolded his wife for fooling him, and had greeted his guests with warmth and pleasure. By eight, the party was in full swing, and Walter had indulged lavishly in the enormous and varied spread of food the caterers provided. He ate quail’s eggs and caviar, smoked salmon and spinach rolls.
But that hadn’t killed him either.
He’d danced with his wife, embraced his children, and dashed away a little tear at his son’s sentimental birthday toast.
And had survived.
At eight-forty-five, with his arm snug around his wife’s waist, he lifted yet another glass of champagne, called for his guests’ attention, and launched into a short but heartfelt speech regarding the sum of a man’s life and the riches therein when he was blessed with friends and family.
“To you,” he said, in a voice thick with emotion, “my dear friends, my thanks for sharing this day with me. To my children, who make me proud—thank you for all the joy you’ve brought me. And to my beautiful wife, who makes every day a day I’m grateful to be alive.”
There was a nice round of applause, then Walter tipped back his glass, drank deep.
And that’s what killed him.
He choked, his eyes bugged. His wife let out a little shriek as he clawed at the collar of his shirt. His son slapped him enthusiastically on the back. Staggering, he pitched forward into the party guests, tipping several of them over like bowling pins before he hit the ground and starting having seizures.
One of the guests was a doctor, and pushed forward to lend aid. The emergency medical technicians were called, and though they responded within five minutes, Walter was already gone.
The shot of cyanide in his toasting flute had been an unexpected birthday gift.
Eve studied him, the slight blue tinge around the mouth, the shocked and staring eyes. Caught the faint and telling whiff of burnt almonds. They’d moved him onto a sofa and loosened his shirt in the initial attempt to revive him. No one had swept away the broken glass and china as of yet. The room smelled strongly of flowers, wine, chilled shrimp, and fresh death.
Walter C. Pettibone, she thought, who’d gone in and out of the world on the same day. A tidy circle, but one most human beings would prefer to avoid.
“I want to see the doctor who worked on him first,” she told Peabody, then scanned the floor. “We’ll need to have all this broken shit taken in, identify which container or containers were spiked. Nobody leaves. That’s guests and staff. McNab, you can start taking names and addresses for followups. Keep the family separate for now.”
“Looks like it would’ve been a hell of a party,” McNab commented as he headed out.
“Lieutenant. Dr. Peter Vance.” Peabody escorted in a man of medium build. He had short, sandy-colored hair and a short, sandy-colored beard. When his gaze shifted past her to Walter Pettibone’s body, Eve saw both grief and anger harden his eyes.
“That was a good man.” His voice was clipped and faintly British. “A good friend.”
“Someone wasn’t his friend,” Eve pointed out. “You recognized that he’d been poisoned, instructed the MTs to notify the police.”
“That’s correct. The signs were textbook, and we lost him very quickly.” He looked away from the body and back at Eve. “I want to believe it was a mistake, some horrible accident. But it wasn’t. He’d just finished giving a rather schmaltzy little toast, so like him. He was standing with his arm around his wife, his son and daughter and their spouses beside him. He had a big grin on his face and tears in his eyes. We applauded, he drank, then he choked. Collapsed right here and began having seizures. It was over in minutes. There was nothing to be done.”
“Where did he get the drink?”
“I couldn’t say. The caterer’s staff was passing around champagne. Other beverages could be had from the bars that were set up here and there. Most of us had been here since about seven. Bambi was frantic about all of the guests being in place when Walt arrived home.”
“Bambi?”
“His wife.” Vance replied. “Second wife. They’ve been married a year or so now. She’s been planning this surprise party for weeks. I’m sure Walt knew all about it. She’s not what you’d call a clever woman. But he pretended to be surprised.”
“What time did he get here?”
“Seven-thirty, on the nose. We all yelled surprise per Bambi’s instr
uctions. Had a good laugh out of it, then went back to eating, drinking. There was some dancing. Walt made the rounds. His son made a toast.” Vance sighed. “I wish I’d paid more attention. I’m sure Walt was drinking champagne.”
“Did you see him drink at that time?”
“I think . . .” He shut his eyes as if to bring it all back. “It seems to me he did. I can’t imagine him not drinking after a toast by his son. Walt doted on his children. I believe he had a fresh glass—it seems to me it was full—when he made his own little toast. But I can’t say for certain whether he picked it off a tray or someone handed it to him.”
“You were friends?”
Grief clouded his face again. “Good friends, yes.”
“Any problems in his marriage?”
Vance shook his head. “He was blissful. Frankly, most of us who knew him were baffled when he married Bambi. He was married to Shelly for, what would it be? More than thirty years, I suppose. Their divorce was amicable enough, as divorces go. Then within six months he was involved with Bambi. Most of us thought it was just some midlife foolishness, but it stuck.”
“Was his first wife here tonight?”
“No. They weren’t quite that amicable.”
“Anyone you know of who’d want him dead?”
“Absolutely no one.” He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I know saying he didn’t have an enemy in the world is a cliché, Lieutenant Dallas, but that’s exactly what I’d say about Walt. People liked him, and a great many people loved him. He was a sweet-natured man, a generous employer, a devoted father.”
And a wealthy one, Eve thought after she’d released the doctor. A wealthy man who’d dumped wife number-one for a younger, sexier model. As people didn’t bring cyanide as a party favor, someone had been there tonight for the express purpose of killing Pettibone.
Eve did the interview with the second wife in a sitting room off the woman’s bedroom.
The room was dim, the heavy pink drapes drawn tight over the windows so that the single lamp with its striped shade provided a candy-colored light.